


The Tulip Toad

by ZioXomic



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Demonic Possession, Other, Pokemon - Freeform, budwiser
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 19:52:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12464692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZioXomic/pseuds/ZioXomic
Summary: Thus far this is only the first half, of a short story I wrote several years ago. I've finally gotten around to typing it up. This story might come off as a bit weird. Please keep in mind, that this is biased off two poems, my at the time GF had told me about from her high school days. I then filled it in with bits and pieces from our lives. That being said, there will be much that only either myself, or her, could fully grasp.





	The Tulip Toad

The Tulip Toad Inspired by Dee  
Written by Brian K  
It had been several hours since she had been placed in her cage, and perhaps as many days since her last meal. The hunger, anxiety, and anger welling up within her was nearly unbearable. Control, and patience, that was what set her apart from the others, it was her edge. Of course, there were other differences as well. That hardly mattered though. The bump and rattle of dirt roads had been constant now, for an hour. Each bump and pot hole only inflaming her rage all the more. There was a faster, less abusive route. She knew, just as she knew this, too was intentional. The smell of a fresh rain falls, the smell of wet dirt heavy in the air. They were nearly there now. The thoughts of her opponent’s blood made her salivate.  
With a sudden lurch and bump, that slammed her against the side of her cage. The multicolored and heavily rusted old Ford Ranger turned off the main dirt road, and onto a barely visible and seldom used side road little more than dirt ruts cut into the field, that had perhaps once been a vast and bountiful crop field. Surrounding a now large and dilapidated old barn. From which light could be seen emitting from between seasoned and warped planks greyed with ages in the sun.  
The dark shapes of several vehicles emerged from the darkness, highlighted in stark relief by an occasional flash of lightning. To be silhouetted against the back drop of a starry horizon. The kind of which one only sees in the flat lands of a lightless country side.  
The night was just beginning, but already the smell of sweat and liquor permeated the air. However, it was the metallic tang of blood in the air that was thicker yet, to her acute sense of smell.  
Brakes protesting the whole way. The beat up old Ford Ranger rumbled to a halt near the other parked vehicles in the makeshift parking lot, just in front of the large closed barn doors. A truck door was flung open, only to be slammed shut with as much care, as first a thin Hispanic boy named Caesar stepped out. Followed by an older looking version of himself, referred to simply as Padre. Turning off the truck. Padre gently exited the truck, shooting a slight glare his impetuous son’s way.  
Reaching into the back of the back of the truck. Padre lifted out an ominously calm and quite metal cage, that belied the vicious rage held within. Ever the malicious one, Caesar couldn’t help smacking the cage with a branch, as his father, readjusting its greasy rag cover. Shot his mollycoddled son another tepid glare from the corner of his eye.  
His baleful propensity played out for the moment. Caesar checked and rechecked his attire. Ensuring maximum impact. All the while His father patiently watched on, in nauseated abhorrence. Caesar’s task complete. The pair approached and entered the barn via a well-hidden and disguised side door.  
Once inside the pair quickly moved past various tables packed with hearty farm hands, sullied from a hard day’s labor. Each table seemingly devoted to gambling and or one vice or another. The air was thick and a heavy musk hung about each table that seemed to accentuate them individually, like a bazar of opioids and lewd adultery. The lighting poor and dim as it was, ebbed with the gyrations of an old generator, adding to the atmosphere of anonymous indulgence.  
As Padre walked through a smoky haze, and past the last row of tables. He came to stand before a table with a large roulette wheel. The wheel spinning, a ball bouncing about it maddeningly. Padre stopped to watch the ball’s travel, as he patiently waited. Father Trevor Smith, the local preacher, was a tall and stout man with a healthy gut wrought of too many beers. A dusty old threadbare denim jacket covering the cassock he traditionally wore each day, did little to mask his otherwise holy nature. The father was taking down the bets. It was a tradition for Padre to have his prized cock blessed by the father before each big fight.  
As Padre watched the bouncing white ball, the father fell silent, in anticipation. Finally, the ball settled, bouncing from 10, to where it came to rest on 23. Producing a great many moans and groans from the small crowd around the table.  
The game of “chance” finished, Padre caught the father’s eye and the faintest of smiles pulled at the corners of his lips. Padre was all too familiar with the good father’s games. These farm folks were very superstitious about odd numbers and the color black. They would avoid these when they could. The good father, being wise as he was. Took advantage of this. He had crafted this wheel himself. Complete with magnets and a steel foil ball painted white. The ball almost always landed on a black odd number. Padre had caught onto this early on. However, respect and need had always kept his lips sealed. A sort of common respect. A friendship, based on mutual gain. Had emerged between the two men.  
With blessings of continued health and prosperity from the good father. The group of grumbling farmers rose and left the table, leaving the father with Padre.  
Stepping around the table. Padre held up the small, still and silent cage. Knowing the routine all too well. Father Smith put his best poker face smile on, and cheerfully greeted Padre and his prized possession. The father stole a quick glance at Caesar in the back ground. Always amused by Padre’s son. The father was not disappointed this night. Dressed as a Japanese character of some sorts, by his best guess.  
Though Caesar was the spitting image of his father. The two couldn’t be further at odds. Where Padre was content to wear threadbare hammy downs, a pair old worn leather boot, topped by a dusty old cowboy’s hat. Caesar’s clothing always appeared to be fresh and new. His shoes spotless. The brim of his hat, a red and white thing centered with a red ball emblem, was straight and flat. Additionally, where Padre was ever aware of his surroundings. Caesar seemed oblivious to his, caught up as he was with his cell phone. To Father Smith, it seemed Caesar was more akin to his own high school daughter. His thumbs racing across his phone’s screen as they were.  
Father Smith’s attention was brought back to Padre, and the cage he held. Padre was blabbering on about something in Spanish, of which Father Smith was only vaguely able to discern, primarily through interpretations of hand gestures and inflictions of voice. He could honestly have cared less about any of it though. Nevertheless, outwardly the good Father appeared unbiased, unopinionated, and completely sincere. He had a deep dislike of anyone of color. Having been in the military, he also looked down upon any man whom hadn’t also served in the armed forces.  
Father Smith might not care, but he’d give his “blessing” Then promptly retreat to the fresh air outside for a much-deserved cigarette. Suddenly, Padre’s rambling subsided. Father Smith figured the time for blessing was upon him.  
Putting his hands upon Padre’s shoulder. Father Smith began a faint chanting. Little more than a barely audible murmur in the surrounding pandemonium of sin. Quickly though his chants took on ever more strength. The volume rising to a crescendo. The words were meaningless, little more than, what was it called? Ah yes tongues. Finally, in English, Father Smith finished  
“Father who art in heaven, bless this man in his endeavors and grand his, uh... bird the strength to smite his foes” Father Smith moved his hand to lightly rest atop the cage as he finished his blessing.  
“The blessings of our God almighty, granted upon thee…. mighty warrior” with that, father Smith gave one glance Caesar’s way, before returning his attention to Padre. “  
“Well old friend, as always a true blessing it is to see you and your son.”  
“Oh gracious, GRACIOUS!”  
Father smith held up a hand to silence the otherwise long praise he knew was sure to follow.  
” Oh, you’re sooo welcome” Father smith began, before his attention was momentarily diverted, as he noticed a rather large man take a seat at a table across the crowed room.  
“You’ll have to pardon me Padre, but there is a rather urgent mater that needs a father’s touch out in the parking lot”  
Father Smith said this with such care, and tenderness. That Padre could have had no doubt to Father Smith’s sincerity, or to the nature of the alleged urgency out in the parking lot. The father’s eyes slipped back once more to the comical, younger version of Padre. This time Father smith didn’t bother concealing his smile, as it broadened on his face. The smile could easily have been mistaken as genuine affection for Padre’s continued wellbeing.  
At times Padre’s English was harsh and unintelligible. Father Smith hardly bothered to decipher Padre’s words though, as his eyes caught sight of Jorden Howe, and his thoughts slipped elsewhere.  
“Yoou, coma to mee casa. Caesar Muy Bueno. He cooka grande “  
Father Smith looked back to back to Padre, his restraint finally dissolving. He placed his hand once more upon Padre’s shoulder. Giving it a firm and affectionate squeeze.  
“Yes, yes. Padre, dinner sometime sounds excellent. Now if you’ll excuse me.”  
“Oh, si, si.”  
Father Smith wasted little more time. Mr. Howe was now comfortably seated at the table, a fresh hand was being dealt out. A large pile of chips neatly stacked in front of him. Father Smith gave one final squeeze of Padre’s shoulder before making haste for the exit.  
Once outside. Father Smith drew in a deep breath of fresh air. The smell of rain was fresh in the air. The storm could still be seen raging in the distance, an occasional flash of lightening sundering the clouds. As Father Smith rounded the corner of the Great barn. His hand slid into the pocket of his trousers, feeling the reassuring wad of bills, he’d swindled from the local idiots  
” Sinners” The father chuckled.  
Tonight, had been a most profitable night. The moonshine had started to flow earlier this week, something the good father would have to see to happening again more often. As the father approached the makeshift parking area. He spotted Mr. Howe’s family van. A rickety early 70s era Chevy van with those hideous fish bowl windows in the back. The paint was heavily faded and the thing often smelled. Father Smith would rather not even liken as to guess at what the smells could even be. Even so, as he approached the van. Another wad within his pants began growing to rival that of the cash wad. Once he had come to within a few meters, however, his mood changed quickly.  
“God fucking damn it!” The father muttered to himself, as he could now clearly hear a faint creaking noise emanating from the vans tired old suspension. He could also now notice the slight sway of the van too. Howe’s daughter was plying her trade. Father Smith had hoped to get her fresh, relatively speaking.  
“Oh well, sloppy seconds it is then” Father Smith said with a resigned, and smug expression.  
The father stopped then, eying his surroundings suspiciously. He let out a grateful sigh of relief. He’d been a bit careless in his excitement. While Father Smith, didn’t doubt that more than a few held a deplorable view of himself. He still had an image to maintain. Being seen sulking around the Howes’ family van, at any time, least of all here and now. Would bring into the open the doubts many felt about him.  
“Well I did need a smoke” He chuckled lightly, as he slid into the shadows between two cars near the van  
“Selene, ah well I suppose I’ll have to repent again for this” The good father couldn’t help but to let out an audible laugh at this thought, as he lit a cigarette. The glowing tip the only visible evidence of his presence to any passersby. Another set of chuckles racked the holly man as he pondered paying Selene with her own father’s money, that he’d just recently inveigled from him.  
Having received the father’s blessings. Padre lead his son, whose attention was still affixed to his phone, through the tangle fold out tables once more. At the far corner of the barn was the “pit”. As they entered a section separated from the rest of the barn, via a waist high wall. Padre could feel eyes burning into them. The others were envious of his prized fighter, padre knew. Ever since he came to possess his latest champion.  
His late brother in law was a man of wealth who enjoyed the extravagant. When he disappeared, and was presumed dead back in Cuba. His estate was dismantled by the family. Padre ended up with what is now his prized possession. Though at the time he received it, he wasn’t so enthusiastic.  
All that poor Padre got was his brother’s prized penguin. A lovely female. Padre hadn’t any clue as to what he would do with it. Not until it got into the house with one of his best fighting cocks. Padre suspected that Caesar might have had something to do with that. Certainly, Padre would have scolded him for it too. Had not the funny looking bird utterly decimated the fighting cock.  
Ever since then, the Penguin has been here at the battle pit each Week. The penguin was undefeated, aided no doubt by the steroids Padre had been giving her. Initially the others at the pit had agreed to let the penguin compete in the pit battles. They had undoubtedly considered the funny bird to be a joke. Padre, however, whom had enjoyed chicken soup curtesy of that funny bird. Knew better. Six weeks later. The others would now agree. For they now loathed Padre, his coxcomb son, and their infernal penguin.  
Thus, it was with no small amount of smugness that Caesar prepared himself for his most favorite part of the night. From his backpack he retrieved a small plastic ball about the size of a baseball. It was made up of two halves. One bright red, the other plain white. Grasping the ball in his hand. He went through a quick set of stretches.  
The onlookers were gawking at him as was usual. They vented their frustration of the trio by sending catcall and queer remarks Caesar’s way. Caesar didn’t speak a lick of English, and so was clueless as to their true meaning. To his naive mind. He was the main attraction and this was his dotting audience. Padre, of course understood, though thought best to leave it be.  
As Padre watched his son prepare for the show to come. He checked their gladiator. She was well mannered and thus he removed her from her cage and equipped her with her custom-made blades, then set her to the side as he watched two cocks battling it out in the pit. They were just finishing up their bout. A whirlwind of feathers with a glint of steel flashing by quicker than the eye could catch. There was a series of cries, as blood began spraying forth. Both cocks were exhausted, that was clear. However, rest for one would be all to sudden and all to permanent. Padre cracked a small smile as he watched one of the cocks finally collapse in a heap of bloodied twitching feathers. He knew his turn would be next. He also knew, that as impressive as many of these cocks were, His hit harder and came on faster.  
Padre Looked over to his right, past his son, to Dozer. Dozer was the one individual Padre despised the most. His large bulk and equally large ego made him many enemies amongst the bird enthusiast. A fact that would make his own victory all the sweeter, as he and Padre would be battling tonight.  
As the loser of the last battle was being unceremoniously dumped into a large bucket. Caesar took his place at the side of the pit. Drawing in a deep breath. He drew his red and white ball out into his right hand. Caesar then struck a pensive pose. This was Padre’s que to be ready. Caesar would only hold this pose for a moment.  
The grip on the ball tightening. Caesar’s eyes focused on a spot of the floor just two meters before himself. Caesar closed his eyes, he let out a deep breath. Then drawing in a fresh breath. He closed his eyes, shut tight, then they popped open. Caesar launched himself into motion, with a suddenness that still surprised even his own father, despite the many times they had performed this very performance.  
Sticking a pose like that of the “thinker” but while standing. The ball held in his right hand, pressed to his forehead. He was hunched over with his left hand posed behind himself.  
Shouting now in perfect English, even though he understood none of his own words.  
“PIDGEOTTO!” With a dramatic flourish. He spun himself into a pose much like that of a major league baseball pitcher, about to let rip. Ball raised and ready to lance out.  
“I…. CHOSE” Then with a snap. Caesar threw the plastic Poke ball to the ground, in the precise spot he had intended. He then dropped to one knee  
“YOU!” he screamed, as he tightly closed his eyes waiting.  
The ball hit the ground, and with a crack and pop, split apart emitting a slight flash and spewing forth a very light cloud of smoke. Not waiting a single second. Padre sprang into action. As quickly and as quietly as he could manage. Padre rushed past the still kneeling form of his son, Pidgeotto in his arms. he carefully set Pidgeotto down on the spot where the poke ball had struck the ground. Then he quickly gathered up the two halves of the poke ball. His work done, Padre hurried back past the patiently waiting Caesar, whose eyes had remained shut.  
The hustle and Bustle of the parlor outside the pit had, for the most part, momentarily paused. Their collective attention for a moment focused on Caesar. There were a few claps, and the clearing of some throats. A few catcalls and snide remarks broke the relative silence, bringing the mob back to their own affairs. This was all that Caesar received, all he ever received for his efforts. Nevertheless. Caesar relished the spot light.  
Slowly the noises resumed as the onlookers, losing interest once more, resumed their games of chance. Slowly Caesar opened his eyes, to reveal the “summoned” Pidgeotto standing before him. Slowly he rose to his feet, and went to stand beside his father.  
“Well now that that is out of the way. Maybe we can get on with the fight?” Dozer boomed from across the pit. Casting a baleful glance at the pair of father and son, that drifted to rest on that of Pidgeotto standing near the center of the pit. Pidgeotto stood still, eyes closed and breathing rhythmically, as though fast asleep.  
Pidgeotto looked much like any penguin would, except for the wing blades affixed to each wing, held fast by thin leather straps across her chest and back. The blades themselves had been polished, with great love and care by a doting Padre, to a mirror like finish. Many fine line scars criss crossed her lean form, some fully healed. Others still in various states of convalescing. Her muscles bulged here and there, where the fat was thinning. A result of the steroid cocktails she regularly enbibed  
Dozer’s own fighting cock had proven himself. Having survived and won all his last three battles. Dozer had made it a common practice to stain his cocks red. His current champion was no different, and had inherited its predecessor’s battle gear as well. Worn and well used were the pair of spikes that adorned his feet, though still extremely sharp.  
The battle about to begin. Dozer’s hooded contender was brought forth. The bets had been placed, and Dozer’s cock’s hood was removed and the fiery red cock set lose into the pit. It fluttered about before settling down enough to focus on the Still and calm Pidgeotto. The fighting cock began a slow circle around the battle penguin, looking for weakness and sizing her up. Then with lightning speed, it struck, screeching in a madness. The red cock lunged at Pidgeotto, raking his metal claws across her left wing, tearing the flesh, and drawing thin lines of blood. Pidgeotto’s eyes popped open with such an intensity. She flew into motion, erupting into a violent whirlwind of slashing wing blades. The surrounding lights reflecting off the highly polished spinning wing blades, producing a strobe like effect.  
Round and round, she spun, bringing first her left, and then right blades to bare. Like a spinning top. She quickly advanced on a clearly scared and overwhelmed opponent. The great red cock retreating, a rapidly spinning Pidgeotto right atop him the whole way, spraying the red cock’s life fluids like a gyrating sprinkler, red vertical lines marking their progress across the pits ground.  
Not at all used to this, and more than a little intimidated. The red cock couldn’t help but stumble as he retreated from Pidgeotto’s mad furry. With each stumble, the cock received another blow, each blow drawing forth more fluids, and weakening his resolve.  
Pidgeotto kept up the spinning onslaught until her foe was pinned in the corner. Stopping her spin of death. She gazed upon the bloodied red cock, blood flowing freely now from the once mighty cock. This sight usually in sighted a berserker like rage in the fighting cocks. However, it didn’t have the same effect on herself. Her opponent proved to be no different, however as she barely had a split second to admire her work before the red cock pumped up from the blood lust. Drove into her with abandon, driving her back hard to slam against the far wall of the pit. Pumping vigorously with his legs as he was. This cock was large, larger than most, and powerful too. Far more so than any cock she had faced before. All games aside, she knew she had to end this, and soon too. Barely able to deflect his powerful leg thrusts. Pidgeotto was vigilantly waiting for her opening.  
Victory, it seemed would go to the more patient of the two. Pidgeotto’s victory came suddenly, when the cock, losing his patience, became frustrated in his attempt to overwhelm Pidgeotto. The red cock stepped up tempo of his leg thrusts. Fortunately for Pidgeotto. He couldn’t keep it up for long. The effort too much for his weakened and bloodied condition. He quickly fell prey to her superior stamina.  
Nearly Exhausted to the point of collapse. The firefly red cock all but throw himself from Pidgeotto, in a violent flourish of blood and feathers. Not hesitating even, a modicum of a second. Pidgeotto was on top of the red cock, allowing not even the slightest of reprieves. Pidgeotto rushed the cock, fluttering her wing blades. Coming up just shy of cutting him. Unable to maintain a backwards peddle, the red cock plopped to the ground, a pool of his own fluids growing beneath.  
Allowing the roid rage to envelope her in full. Pidgeotto attacked the limp cock with a strength and speed she had not yet possessed in this fight.  
Pidgeotto stood over the red cock. Her wings pinwheeling, slashing at the cock’s own wings. Feathers and blood spewing out as a large red streak thickened under each nearly severed wing of the cock.  
The once fierce red cock, now little more than a convulsing mass of gore and feathers. Was in the death throes of its final moments. Pidgeotto turned her roid induced rage to the cock’s chest and began frantically slashing his chest until little more than a red pulp remained.  
Her rage sated. Pidgeotto fumbled backwards, now fully exhausted to the point she simply collapsed in a heap.  
The battle finished. Padre scrambled into the pit to carefully gather up Pidgeotto and return her to her cage. Meanwhile, Dozer, after retrieving his metal claws. Merely scooped up his once proud cock with a shovel and dumped it into a bucket at the side of the pit. What was once a prized fighting cock, was now little more than tomorrows fertilizer.  
Padre and Caesar knew better than to linger in this place. Especially after such a prolific win. Padre quickly collected their winnings, and they made their leave amongst the ever more inebriated crowd of angry farmers.  
Back at the truck. Padre gently placed Pidgeotto’s cage in the cab of their truck, in the middle of the bench seat. There she would have a relatively smoother ride than as if she were in the bed of the truck. Padre and Caesar climbed in and fired up the worn out V8. Within minutes they were back on the dirt tracks. Once more, and heading home.  
Not far down the road. The trucks head lights illuminated a figure standing in the middle of the dirt tracks. As they drew closer and slowed to a stop. Padre recognized the figure as that of Father Smith. The man of god was standing stark still, arms hanging limply at his sides. His head tilted slightly askew and back. Eyes staring up into the heavens, as if perhaps searching out some signs from his lord amid the star scape above. He seemed completely oblivious to their presence.  
Padre and Caesar exchanged looks of confusion and concern. This was not at all like the father. Why was he out here in the chill, where was his new Honda Accord? And why hadn’t he acknowledged them.  
Concern turning to dread. Padre looked about in the darkness beyond the beams of the truck’s head lights, as if expecting something. Then shaking his head, as if to dislodge an unwelcome though, and steeling himself. Padre stepped from the truck, he cautiously approached Father Smith. Not knowing what to make of it all. Caesar simply looking on.  
As Padre approached to within a few feet and came to a stop. Father Smith’s head tilted down ever so slightly and his eyes lowered to find those of Padre’s own. Father Smith’s eyes were dull, glazed over. The eyes of the dead. They were looking at padre directly, but not seeing him at all.  
“Father? Father Smith?” Padre inched closer, his concern building more with each inch, over ruling his fear. He came to be standing directly in front of Father Smith. Reaching out. He placed his right hand on the father’s left shoulder, giving it a squeeze, and a slight shake.  
Father Smith’s eyes hadn’t moved with padre’s movements. He still stared at the Spot Padre had occupied a moment ago.  
Suddenly, they snapped to look at Padre and focused with such fierce intensity. That Padre gasped and nearly stumbled backwards. The look of concern rapidly replaced with that of confused astonishment. His continuance turned to reflect a deep chilling fear, and shock as he was pushed back slightly, as if punched in the gut. As a sharp pain erupted in his abdomen. Padre let his hand fall from the father’s shoulder.  
Padre pulled his gaze from the father’s cold eyes to look down at his gut. A large pocket knife had been thrust, to the hilt, into his gut. A large wet stain was slowly creeping down his pants to pool on the ground at his feet. Father Smith’s hand, fingers still curled as if holding the knife, hung motionless inches from the handle of the knife, in the air before him.  
Padre stumbled back and fell to the ground in front of the truck. Father Smith’s hand lowered slowly, almost mechanically to rest at his side once more. His gaze again becoming vacant.  
“NO PADRE!” Caesar screaming, hopped from the truck. A large old double barreled shut gun cradled awkwardly in his hands. Not hesitating, Caesar took aim at the motionless, and unflinching father illuminated in the beams of the truck’s head lights, and Squeezed the trigger of the right barrel.  
A thunderous roar ripped through the silence of the night. Father Smith’s head simply vanishing in a puff of red mist that spread out behind the father’s now headless corpse, and blew back to speckle Caesar’s own cheeks. The recoil nearly ripping the weapon from Caesar’s frail arms, and nearly throwing him to the ground.  
Father Smith’s now headless corpse seemed to stand there just a moment longer before collapsing backwards in a heap. Blood quickly soaking the ground beneath it.  
His rage not yet played out. Adrenalin surging through his veins. Caesar ran up to the body of Father Smith, and discharged the gun’s left barrel directly into Father Smith’s chest at point blank range. Another thunderous roar rented the night, deafening Caesar, following on the fading reverberations of the first shot. This time the recoil was too much for Caesar and it threw him back violently, off his and to the ground.  
With this Father Smith’s chest variably exploded in a shower of blood, flesh, and bone. Leaving not but the limbs aside a gory creator  
Coming back to his senses. Caesar dropped the gun at his side. raising to his knees. Caesar retched, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Caesar, after regaining his composer, scrambled to his feet and rushed to his father’s aid.  
Padre, ever the one to hide when he’s been hurt. Had, by that time, regained his own feet. And was leaning upon the front of the truck for support. The knife was still sticking in his gut. He knew better to leave it in place, lest he bleed out any faster. Like popping the cork on a battle. Despite his carefulness not to touch the blade. Padre felt weak and on the verge of passing out. He knew he might not be able to shrug this one off.  
“PADRE...!” Caesar stopped midway in sentence and in step. A look of confusion falling over his face. His eyes glazing over and going dull. The emotion draining away from his facial features. In their place, a calm and emotionless expression replaced them. Caesar’s arms fell to his side, as he assumed a comfortable standing position.  
Padre looked on in horror, his eyes growing large. Not at all sure of what to make of all this. Momentarily forgetting his grave injury. Padre began to stumble forward, began to reach out to his son. He stopped cold in his tracks though, when Caesar’s cold gazed suddenly focused on him. The same cold stare that Father Smith had given him, but that wasn’t Father Smith at all. This wasn’t his son looking at him now. He couldn’t say how he knew this, only that he did.  
Caesar’s eyes settled onto those of his own father’s. A mischievous grin began to pull at the corners of his mouth, as his posture relaxed further and me moved to stand in front of his father.  
Padre stared in puzzled wonderment as what appeared to be a frog or toad of some sorts crawled from Caesar’s behind back, and up onto his right shoulder. As the toad settled itself into a comfortable sitting position there. Its forelegs began to emanate a viridescent glow.  
Caesar began to speak, but the deep demonic sounding voice that broke forth from his lips wasn’t his own.  
“AH, but you have a fine lad here. No intellect worth mentioning. Gullible, and with deep seeded, and dark desires. The perfect puppet.”  
With a nod of his head, Caesar cast a glance back at the remains of Father Smith.  
“The cleric was too intellectual. I needed an inept host. One who wouldn’t want to fight my will.” Caesar gave a light maniacal chuckle.  
“That he, like myself, is greedy and self-motivated only strengthens my hold upon him. He wants to serve me, he enjoys it.”  
Padre’s face drained further, and not just from the continued blood loss anymore. Rather from what he was now witnessing. It was hard to tell; a savage feral look came upon Padre’s face. His muscles bunched up. He sprang into action, sprinting past his son, at a flat out run, unintentionally bumping shoulders with Caesar as he passed. Caesar however made no move to stop him or bar his passage. He only gave a deep laugh.  
“RUN! For what good it will do you. RUN! Until the meager blood left to you is no more.”  
Run Padre did. He ran as hard as he could manage. His mouth opened as if to scream. “Devil” but his throat was to dry, he was too weak to put any force behind it.  
Back at the truck, Caesar stared after the retreating form of his father for just a moment longer. Then without any further thought or emotion, turned and went to climb into the driver’s seat of the truck. His gaze went immediately to the metal cage sitting quietly in the middle of the bench seat. An affectionate look replacing the smug expression on Caesar’s face. He lowered his right hand to rest upon the top of the cage. Allowing the toad to lumber down the length of Caesar’s arm and out onto the top of the cage.  
“Best be moving along now Puppet” The toad croaked. He sounded like what one would expect a toad should sound like. However, to his puppets, his croaks turned into an intelligible dialect within their minds. The toad shared a telepathic link with those whom he controlled. To them his will was crystal clear without the use of any vocalizations.  
Caesar put the truck into gear and all but slammed the accelerator to the floor. The trucks engine rumbled, sounding like an old steam engine. Then lurched and shambled forward. The sudden forward jerking motion slamming shut the still open passenger door, as the truck began to barrel down the dirt tracks. Caesar taking on a zestfully maddened look as he gleefully gripped the steering wheel.  
Padre had managed to run nearly 30 meters down the dirt track, before collapsing in the middle of them. He rolled over onto his back. Gasping for each breath. He struggled to raise himself onto one elbow. He could see the light now. At the end of the tunnel. The light was rapidly moving towards him, or perhaps he has moving towards it. Either way, it mattered little to him. This was it, Heaven! Rosemary he knew would be waiting for him. He could hear her now; her voice was faint. But growing in strength. Becoming a loud roar.  
Leaning on his right elbow. Padre raised his left hand out, tantalizingly reaching for the light. Padre’s look of elation turned to a bewildered one as the light, now much closer. Split from one, into two lights. Just before the lights, for Padre, went out altogether.  
The coup de grace being delivered by his own son, in the form of a rusted metal bumper to the head.  
Padre’s head popped like a watermelon shot with a cannon ball. His body lurching up from the impact, and snagging on the undercarriage of the truck. Catching and rolling about underneath the truck until finally being expelled out the real, as if some large road cone one “accidentally” runs over on an occasion.  
The toad being jostled about, shot a withering glare his puppet’s way, letting out a series of angry croaks. His will and displeasure instantly known to Caesar, even without the croaks.  
“well now that that is out of your system. Mind slowing down, until we reach the interstate?”  
Caesar’s expression, losing its fervor. Looked to the toad, then returned his attention to the task of driving. His expression tranquil once more.  
A short while later. The beat up old Ford Ranger pulled off the dirt tracks and back onto the main road. As per the toad’s instructions. Caesar headed west along the interstate, Towards the main town in that desolate area.


End file.
